The fireworks continued to bloom over the harbour, a careless celebration of light and colour that seemed obscene against the weight of the text message still glowing on Lin Yanting's phone. He stared at the screen, the words seared into his retinas: "The crossing was always meant for you. One more coin. One more victim."
Chan Do's hand tightened on his arm. "It's a copycat. It has to be. Uncle Kwok is in ICAC custody. I saw them take him."
Yanting shook his head slowly, a cold dread settling in his bones. "The Ferryman didn't work alone. He had contacts, suppliers, a network. Someone in that network could have picked up his tools. Or someone who was following his work, inspired by it." He pocketed the phone, his jaw tight. "Either way, the threat is real. And it's directed at me."
Ma appeared in the doorway, her face flushed from the chase. "Cheung is secured. The bomb squad is on the barge—they've already found the first device. It's a professional job. Timed triggers, redundant circuits. This wasn't thrown together overnight."
"Which means someone else is behind it," Chan said, his voice flat. "Cheung was the financier, but he wasn't the technician. Uncle Kwok was the architect. Someone else built the bombs."
Yanting turned to Ma. "I need access to the Ferryman's interrogation. The real one. Not the sanitised version that ICAC has been putting out."
Ma's eyes narrowed. "You think he knows who the copycat is?"
"I think he knows everything. And I think he's been waiting for this moment." Yanting glanced at Chan, then back at Ma. "He told me I was the witness—the one who would survive to tell the story. But what if he meant something else? What if he meant I was the final crossing?"
The ICAC holding facility was a windowless bunker in a nondescript government building on the outskirts of the city. The Ferryman—whose real name was Kwok Ming-wah—had been held there since his arrest, isolated from the outside world, his only visitors lawyers and interrogators. Yanting had to pull every favour he had left to get inside, and even then, he was only granted thirty minutes.
The interrogation room was small, grey, and smelled faintly of disinfectant. Kwok Ming-wah sat at a metal table, his wrists uncuffed, his face a mask of serene exhaustion. He looked older than he had at the dry dock, as if the confession had drained the last reserves of purpose from his veins.
"Detective Lin," he said, his voice a dry rustle. "I was wondering when you would come."
Yanting sat across from him, Chan beside him, Ma observing through the one-way mirror. "You knew someone would take up your work after you were caught."
Kwok smiled—a sad, knowing smile. "I knew that I had planted seeds. Not all of them were watered. But some... some were left to grow." He paused, studying Yanting with eyes that saw too much. "You received a message. A text. The final crossing."
"How did you know?"
"Because I sent it."
The words hung in the air, absurd and impossible. Yanting leaned forward, his voice tight. "You're in custody. You don't have access to a phone."
Kwok reached into his mouth and pulled out a small, flat object—a sliver of plastic, no larger than a fingernail, that he had been hiding under his tongue. A phone chip. "I've had this since the dry dock. One of the ICAC officers was... sympathetic. He didn't know what he was passing along. He thought it was a personal message to my lawyer."
Chan's face went pale. "You sent that text to Yanting. From inside custody. You planned this."
"I planned everything," Kwok said, his voice calm, almost gentle. "I knew the investigation would expose Kong and Cheung. I knew you would survive, Xiao Do. And I knew you would fall in love with the detective. But I also knew that love would not be enough to stop the cycle. The ferry needs a passenger, and the passenger needs to be willing."
Yanting's hands were trembling. "What are you talking about?"
Kwok leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant. "The final crossing is not a physical location. It's a choice. I have left instructions with my network—a single document, hidden in a place only my most trusted contact knows. It contains everything: the names of everyone who was involved in the Prosperity Weaving conspiracy, the offshore accounts, the bribes, the murders. Everything that I could not include in the archive because it was too dangerous."
"You're going to use that document to bargain for a lighter sentence," Yanting said.
"No." Kwok's smile widened. "I'm going to give it to you, Detective. Because you are the only one I trust to use it properly. But there's a condition."
Chan's hand found Yanting's under the table, squeezing hard. "Don't listen to him. He's manipulating you."
"Of course I am," Kwok said, without rancour. "I have been manipulating everyone for ten years. It's the only skill I have left. But this manipulation has a purpose. The document is a map, Detective. It will show you the way to expose everyone who profited from my father's death. But to unlock it, you must complete the crossing."
Yanting's voice was barely a whisper. "What crossing?"
Kwok reached into his pocket—against all procedure, but the guards were watching, uncertain—and placed a single bronze coin on the table. Identical to the ones he had left on his victims. Identical to the one Yanting carried in his own pocket.
"Tonight, at midnight, you will go to the old ferry terminal at Tai O. Alone. You will stand at the end of the pier, and you will wait. Someone will come to collect you. You will take that coin, and you will pay the fare. If you complete the crossing, the document will be delivered to you within twenty-four hours. If you refuse, or if you bring anyone with you, the document will be destroyed, and the truth will die with me."
Yanting stared at the coin, its worn surface reflecting the harsh fluorescent light. "And if I do this? What happens to me?"
Kwok's eyes were ancient, filled with a sorrow that transcended the room. "You will become the Ferryman. Not in action—never in action. You are not a killer, Detective. But you will carry the knowledge. You will know who did what, to whom, and why. And you will have to decide, every day, whether to use that knowledge as a weapon or as a shield. That is the final crossing."
Chan exploded out of his chair, his hands slamming on the table. "No! You don't get to do this. You don't get to pass your burden to him. If there's a crossing, I'll make it. I've been carrying your secrets for a decade."
Kwok looked at Chan with something like pity. "You cannot, Xiao Do. The crossing is not for the blood. It is for the heart. The detective has something you do not—the capacity to choose mercy. You would choose revenge. I know this because I see myself in you. That is why I spared you all these years. That is why I must give the crossing to him."
Yanting reached out and placed his hand over Chan's, calming him. "I'll do it."
Chan turned to him, his eyes wild. "You can't. It's a trap. He's going to have you killed, just like the others."
"Maybe." Yanting's voice was steady. "But if I don't go, the document is destroyed. And then everyone who participated in that conspiracy—everyone who has been hiding behind wealth and power—gets away. The victims get no justice. Your father gets no peace. I can't let that happen."
Chan's face crumpled. "I just got you back. I can't lose you again."
Yanting pulled him close, whispering into his ear. "You won't. I'll come back. I promise you, I will come back."
The guards escorted Kwok Ming-wah out of the room, his footsteps slow and deliberate, as if he was already crossing a river. Yanting picked up the coin from the table, its weight familiar and terrible.
Ma burst into the room, her face a storm of frustration. "You're not going to that terminal alone. I'll have a team in place within the hour."
"No." Yanting pocketed the coin. "If Kwok's contact sees anyone besides me, the deal is off. I have to go alone."
"Then I'll track you. GPS, drone, whatever it takes."
"Ma." Yanting looked at her, and for the first time, his voice cracked. "I need you to trust me. If I die tonight, then I die knowing I tried. But if I don't come back, you take the archive—the real one—and you bring them all down. Promise me."
Ma's eyes glistened, but she nodded. "I promise."
The drive to Tai O took two hours through the winding coastal roads. Yanting left his phone behind, his badge, his gun. He took only the coin, and a small flashlight. The old terminal was a skeletal relic, its wooden pier extending into the dark water like a finger pointing to the horizon.
He walked to the end, the planks groaning under his weight. The night was still, the only sound the gentle lapping of the tide. He waited, the coin cold in his palm.
At midnight, a figure emerged from the mist—a small boat, rowed by a single oarsman. The boat glided to the pier, and the oarsman looked up. It was a woman, her face weathered by salt and wind, her eyes the colour of the sea.
"You have the coin?" she asked, her voice rough.
Yanting held it out. She took it, examined it, then nodded. "Get in."
He stepped into the boat, and she pushed off from the pier. The shore receded into darkness, and the boat moved silently across the water. Yanting watched the coast disappear, and for a moment, he felt a terrifying peace.
The woman rowed for an hour, maybe more. They passed no other boats, no lights, no signs of civilization. Finally, she steered toward a small, rocky island, little more than a outcropping of stone. A narrow cave mouth yawned in the cliff face.
"The document is inside," she said. "You have until dawn to retrieve it. If you're not out by then, the tide will rise and seal the cave."
Yanting stepped onto the rocks, his flashlight cutting through the dark. The cave was damp and cold, its walls glistening with moisture. He walked deeper, and at the far end, he found a metal box, rusted but sealed.
He opened it. Inside were files—thousands of pages, bound in folders, each one meticulously organized. Photographs, bank statements, confidential memos, letters. The complete record of a decade-long conspiracy.
And on top of the pile, a handwritten note, in the same elegant calligraphy that had haunted him since the beginning:
"To the Detective who chose to cross. You have the truth now. What you do with it is your choice. I will be watching from the other shore. — The Ferryman"
Yanting clutched the box to his chest, his heart pounding. He had done it. He had crossed the river, and he had brought back the truth.
But as he turned to leave, he heard a sound from the mouth of the cave—the scrape of a boat against rock. He froze. The woman had left. There should be no one else.
He crept toward the entrance, his flashlight off, his senses straining. A shadow fell across the opening—a figure, tall and lean, silhouetted against the grey dawn.
"Detective Lin," a voice said, smooth and familiar. "I knew you would make the crossing. But I didn't think you would be so foolish as to come alone."
The figure stepped forward, and Yanting's blood ran cold.
It was Chan Do.
His face was unreadable, his hands empty. He smiled—a smile that held none of the warmth Yanting had come to love.
"I followed you," Chan said. "I told you I would never lose you again. But I also never told you everything." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bronze coin—identical to the one Yanting had used, but older, more worn. "My father gave me this when I was twelve. He said it was a token of safe passage. I've been carrying it ever since."
Yanting's voice was hoarse. "Chan—what are you saying?"
Chan stepped closer, his eyes holding a depth of sorrow and determination. "I'm saying that I was the Ferryman's apprentice. Not in killing—never in killing. But in everything else. In tracking, in documenting, in preparing. I knew about the document. I knew where it was hidden. And I knew that the final crossing would require someone willing to carry the weight. I wanted it to be me."
He reached out and took Yanting's hand, pressing the coin into his palm. "But I was wrong. It was always meant to be you. Because you can still love, Yanting. You can still trust. I lost that a long time ago. But if you can carry the truth and still find mercy, then maybe—maybe there is hope."
Yanting stared at the coin, then at Chan. "You followed me to tell me this?"
"No." Chan's smile was sad. "I followed you to protect you. The woman who rowed you here—she was not just a ferryman. She was also a messenger. And she told me that the Director's remaining associates have been watching the island. They know you have the document. They are coming."
In the distance, the sound of engines—multiple boats, approaching fast.
Chan pulled out a second coin, identical to the one Yanting held. "There's another way off this island. An old smugglers' tunnel that leads to a cove on the other side. We have to move. Now."
Yanting clutched the box to his chest and followed Chan into the dark, the thunder of approaching boats echoing behind them.
The crossing was over.
The hunt had just begun.
No comments yet. Be the first to comment!